Walking Shadows
by Silbrith
Summary: In the summer of 1603, an outbreak of the plague has profound consequences for Jack. Story #9 in Six-Crossed Knot.
1. A New Era

"Out, out, brief candle!  
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player  
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage  
And then is heard no more."  
—_Macbeth_

* * *

**Chapter 1: A New Era**

**Syon Estate. July 26, 1603.**

"That's the last one," Jack said, hoisting the trunk onto the cart.

"Are you sure you won't accompany me to Norfolk?" Tom Harriot asked. "With the theaters closed because of the plague, work must be hard to come by. I wager you'd be able to land some painting commissions from the gentry in Norfolk, especially when they hear of the murals you've done for Lord Northumberland."

"I hope that's the case. I'll come to see you after checking on Lady Bess," Jack promised.

He'd miss Tom's comfortable quarters on Lord Northumberland's estate at Syon. The simple brick house had been a home for both of them over the past several years. Jack had kept his painting supplies there and practiced the viol in free moments. There'd been plenty of space for Tom's experiments. Mop had been able to roam free on the estate and as he grew older, he had a warm hearth to sleep by. The dog wouldn't be leaving Syon. The years had caught up with him. Jack buried him last spring in the shade of an oak tree behind Tom's house.

"Lady Bess shouldn't stay in London either," Tom said. "No one's safe," he added in a mutter.

Did he mean from the plague or from the king? A new era for England began when the queen died last March. From Jack's perspective, the most significant change was that his playing company had switched their name from the Lord Chamberlain's Men to the King's Men. Not that they got to perform very often. Until the plague ran its course, he was doing odd jobs wherever he could.

The plague wasn't the only storm cloud that arrived with King James. His persecution of witches became even more severe once he moved from Edinburgh. Rumors were widespread that witches were responsible for the plague because they feared the new king.

And it extended beyond witches. Anyone who practiced alchemy was considered suspect. Even Lord Northumberland had to be careful. To forestall any issues, he'd quickly curried favor with the king. Sir Walter should have done the same. He was arrested a month ago. He'd been accused of plotting to overthrow the king and was now imprisoned in the Tower of London.

Tom absently stroked his beard. "Please let Lady Bess know if there's anything I can do for her . . . or Walter . . ." His words trailed off in a helpless shrug.

"They already know," Jack said gently. Tom's attempts to vouch for Sir Walter's character had perhaps done more harm than good. Father H said that Tom was suspected of being an atheist. That was nonsense. He used to regularly attend services when Jack was a member of St. Paul's choir school. But paranoia was as rampant as the plague.

For over a decade, Lord Northumberland had been a benefactor to both of them. In addition to the house at Syon, he'd given Tom properties in Norfolk and Cornwall. But now Tom worried that Lord Northumberland might suffer repercussions from his friendship. Tom hoped the house outside Norwich would be far enough away to prevent his lordship from suffering any rebukes for the friendship he'd shown Tom over the years.

"London is not safe for you either," Tom warned. "The king just issued another proclamation about the plague. You'll be careful to avoid all quarantined houses?"

"Of course," Jack assured him. He smiled, trying to lighten the mood. "Besides, it's not like I could catch anything from Leonard or Father H."

During the plague, there was much to be said for being a _wearh_. In fact, based on his understanding, there were only positives no matter what the circumstances. Freedom from disease, ability to cure injuries, long life, coupled with the ability to run faster than he could ever manage. Leonard had him beat in so many areas. It was truly unfortunate Jack hadn't been born one.

Tom gave a rueful smile. "I wish you and I were as well protected."

#

The _clop-clop_ of Sienna's hooves sounded eerily quiet on the cobblestone streets of London. The only carts Jack had seen were carrying corpses bound for one of the mass burial sites. The stones were thick with dried herbs, but the fragrance of rosemary and sorrel was hard to distinguish among the weeds and refuse on the streets.

Jack leaned forward to pat Sienna's neck. "I'm glad there's no danger of you catching the plague," he murmured. She gave a soft whinny in response as if she agreed.

The month he'd been gone hadn't been kind to London. There were now even fewer people on the streets. Some lanes looked completely deserted. Everywhere he saw poles with clumps of straw attached to them, an indication that plague victims were inside. Large red crosses painted in oil on door lintels were now common.

The official coronation of the king had taken place a few days ago, but the festivities had been restricted. London was fast becoming a city of death. Out of old habit, Jack rode through Blackfriars. He excused it as being on the way to Russell House. Lord Northumberland continued to lease the house along the Strand, staying there when he was needed at Whitehall.

Jack nudged Sienna to a halt so he could linger in the courtyard of the Hart and Crown. The half-timbered building appeared solid. Jack breathed easier when he saw no crosses. He gazed up at the mullioned windows on the upper floor. He used to be inside, looking out on the world. If he squinted his eyes, he could pretend he saw Mistress Roydon's shadow through the glass. That's all she and Master Roydon were now—shadows of a vanished world. He hoped wherever they were, there was no plague to darken their days.

Clicking at Sienna, he nudged her onward. The great houses built along on the Strand appeared to have escaped the plague, perhaps because their owners had already fled to the countryside. At Russell House, a few servants were left. After grooming and feeding the horse at the stable, Jack proceeded on foot.

Durham House was only a block away. When Jack knocked at the door, he was directed to the great hall. Lady Bess, wearing a muslin shift over her gown, was in the midst of supervising the servants as they packed crates.

"Jack, you are a very welcome sight!" she exclaimed when Jack doffed his cap and made a bow.

"Is your ladyship moving?"

She frowned. "We've been kicked out of our home. The Bishop of Durham requested it be returned to the see, and the king granted his permission. It appears that Queen Elizabeth's wishes don't amount to anything now. She bestowed the house on Walter over a decade ago." She smiled ruefully. "Yet another indignity we'll have to endure."

"Where will you go?" Jack asked, dismayed at the news.

"I'm not leaving London," she declared.

"Until the plague is gone, you'd be better off."

"As long as my husband is a prisoner, I refuse to leave. I sent young Wat to my mother in Suffolk. He should be safe there. But no plague will harm me. My anger will burn it away!"

Lady Bess's fierceness reminded him of Mistress Roydon. He was sure the two would have been close friends. Lady Bess had red hair like the mistress. Jack had often wondered if red hair was a sign of a free thinker. Not that he dared mention anything. Nowadays, too many felt free thinkers were in league with Satan.

"Lord Northumberland was my savior," she continued. "He offered me the use of Russell House. Most of our furnishings will go to our estate in Dorset, waiting for the time when our family is reunited."

"How may I help? You and Sir Walter have been so good to me, please let me do something."

She smiled sadly at him. "What I want you can't give me, and that's my husband. But thank you. If you have the time, you can help me pack."

Not a satisfactory substitute.

As Jack wrapped silver vessels in linen cloths, his mind spun in several directions. Unknowingly, Lady Bess had given him a challenge. It reminded him of when he'd been in Prague. The Roydons had lectured him endlessly about not sneaking into the Emperor's palace, but they had only succeeded in making him more determined.

When Gallowglass took him to see the Emperor's menagerie, he'd leaped on the opportunity to make a grand exploration of the palace. And it was thanks to a key he'd stolen that Master Roydon had been able to steal a book. It wasn't really a theft Master Roydon claimed. He'd been careful to explain that the emperor had acquired it by underhanded means so it didn't count. The Roydons had brought the book back with them to England. Jack hadn't heard what happened to it, but he assumed they'd kept it with them.

If he could steal into the palace when he'd been eight, surely the Tower of London wouldn't be that much of a challenge.

"Have you been able to see Sir Walter?" he asked.

She shook her head. "They won't let him have any visitors till his trial, and that's at least a couple of weeks off."

"Then he doesn't know about Durham House . . . I bet I could get a letter to him."

She stared at him, shocked. "I can't permit you to do anything that dangerous. If you were caught, you could be killed on the spot."

"That won't happen," he said firmly. "I'm going to do it. If you don't want to write a letter, I will. He needs to know what's happening and that his friends support him."

#

Hubbard was kneeling at prayer when Susanna Norman entered the nave. She took a seat in the front pew, waiting for him to finish. So many souls to mourn. Only _wearhs_ were spared the horrors of the plague. A daemon had died this morning. The St. James Garlickhythe gathering had lost many of their members.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen." Hubbard crossed himself, stood up, and turned to face Susanna. "Is another parishioner ill?"

"Undoubtedly, but that's not why I came to see you."

He took a seat next to her, hoping to take advantage of the visit to encourage her to leave London. So far, the witches in the city had been spared active persecution by the new king, but the situation wasn't likely to last. Possibly the plague had delayed a new initiative, but Hubbard suspected it would be only a temporary respite.

"I've heard disturbing news from Jeffrey's wife Annick," she said.

Her son had married the Breton witch last year. Hubbard had heard reports about her ability. Annick was one of the de Brigues. The family had the reputation of being seers. Jeffrey was a skilled witch, but her gift supposedly far exceeded that of her husband. Hubbard would have liked to have learned more about her, but he hadn't had the chance to sample her blood. Jeffrey had moved away from London and was living in Norwich where he worked at a pub owned by Susanna's brother.

"Annick heard from a cousin who lives in Paris," Susanna continued. "Witches are asking about Diana's whereabouts. Annick was told she's a powerful English witch and wondered if I knew her." Her face grew anxious. "It's been twelve years. I'm surprised that people are talking about her. Is Jack still inquiring about her on the quays?"

"Not by name, but he still visits the docks every day, hoping to catch a glimpse of her and Matthew. Even though the boy knows they timewalked, he thinks they could pay a return visit."

She looked at him incredulously. "Does he think they used a galleon?"

Hubbard shrugged. "I've pointed out the foolishness of his belief, but he argues how else would they travel, and I've yet to find a compelling counter-argument." Hubbard's mood darkened as he thought about how Matthew had abandoned the boy. At least Diana had shown the good sense to seek Hubbard out and ask for his protection. Jack was a good lad. He idolized the Roydons, but Matthew had turned his back on the child. It was yet another black mark against the de Clermonts.

"Annick heard that Diana may know where a valuable book is. Witches call it _The Book of Life_."

Hubbard had heard of the ancient text. Supposedly the work explained the origin of _wearhs. _"What makes this book so special?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

"It's reputed to be the first grimoire. It explains the source of our magic. I didn't believe it actually existed. I'd never heard Diana mention it. Did she say anything to you?"

"No. Why do you think she would have shared any information with me? You know she wasn't exactly forthcoming with me."

"Because a gathering in Prague heard that a _wearh_ was making inquiries about Diana. Annick's cousin thinks that he may be the source of the rumors. Diana was in Prague. Do you think there's any truth to the tale?"

Was there? Edward Kelley had been in Prague at the same time Diana was there. He'd sent Hubbard a picture of dragons to give to Diana, but she'd already left. Did the picture have something to do with the book? "Not to my knowledge, and I'm not acquainted with any _wearhs_ in Prague."

"Should we warn Jack?"

Hubbard shrugged. "About what? Not to discuss the Roydons? He already knows. What did you tell Annick?" he asked, curious to hear how far she'd gone.

"The truth. That I knew Diana but she's no longer in England and I have no idea where she is. I also warned Annick not to discuss her with others. I trust her. Her own family was persecuted in Brittany. She understands the need to be discreet."

"Does she know about Jack's relationship to Diana?"

"No, it's never come up."

"Good. There's no need for her to know, and in these dangerous times, the fewer who are aware the better." The rumors about the grimoire were tantalizing. Jack had never discussed his time in Prague. He was so young, he likely wouldn't have known what Diana's activities had been. Hubbard felt a lingering unease. What _wearh_ could be asking about her? Most likely it was someone connected to the de Clermonts. Hubbard had never trusted them. It was only reluctantly at Diana's request that he'd agreed to place Matthew under his protection. He hoped that hadn't been a mistake. The de Clermonts were a proud family. They hadn't acquired their position without attracting powerful enemies, and he wanted no part in their scandals.

Familiar scents wafted into the nave. Leonard and Jack were outside. A couple of minutes later, they strolled inside the church, laughing over something. Hubbard sighed over what scrape they were undoubtedly hatching. Didn't he have enough on his plate?

"Mistress Norman!" Jack exclaimed joyfully. "I was going to visit you after seeing Father H. Are you well?" Both he and Leonard doffed their caps.

"Quite well, Jack, thank you. I'll be leaving London shortly. Jeffrey and Annick have invited me to stay with them."

Hubbard nodded his approval. Susanna's husband had died. She'd already lost her niece Annie and her younger son to the plague. She'd be much safer in Norwich where there was no sign of the disease.

He was glad to hear Jack and Leonard offer their help with the move. Perhaps that would keep them out of whatever mischief they were plotting. It was perhaps understandable in Jack's case. He didn't know when he was born but was probably nineteen or twenty. But Leonard had been alive for over a hundred years. The time was long past for him to behave responsibly.

"Tom lives only a short distance from Norwich," Jack said. "I promised I'd visit him after my business in London is concluded. I'll come to see you too. I haven't seen Jeffrey and Annick since the wedding."

"They'd welcome you. I'm assured their mead is the best in Norfolk."

Hubbard eyed Jack suspiciously. The playhouses were all shuttered. Just what was his business in London?

#

"It's a good thing you didn't tell Father H," Leonard murmured under his breath. "He'd chain you to the bell tower. I thought my schemes were daring, but you take the prize. Sneaking into the Tower of London?"

Jack grinned. "And we're about to do it." He brushed a piece of lint off his yeoman uniform. They'd spent the past two days in reconnaissance, monitoring the activities of the tower guards. More than ever Jack was jealous of Leonard's heightened night vision, not to mention lightning-fast speed. Jack had lifted the key to the guard supply room, but Leonard had insisted on stealing the uniforms. His claim that he was too fast to be spotted was irrefutable.

Finally, the days of lurking on the quay beneath the tower were over. They were both clad in armor with scarlet velvet coats trimmed in silver. Their bonnets were black and red. Jack couldn't wait to make a portrait of Leonard when they'd finished their mission. He'd give it to Bryn when they related their adventure. But there was one small detail left—actually accomplishing the feat. He had a letter and two books from Lady Bess secreted within his coat. All they needed to do was deliver them.

By now, they'd memorized the guards' schedule. Leonard had recommended waiting till night, when, if anything went wrong, they'd be harder to spot. For the past hour, they'd been concealed under an archway waiting for the guard to leave the tower block where Raleigh was imprisoned.

Leonard nudged him. "I can smell the guard," he whispered. "He reeks of ale. With any luck, he'll fall asleep."

"Did you add more to his tankard while he was upstairs?"

Leonard's teeth flashed white as he grinned. "Aye, and it was the extra potent brew."

Jack fell silent when he heard the thud of the guard's boots on the stone staircase. He flattened his body against the wall and noticed Leonard doing the same. Once the guard passed them and continued down the stairs, they sprang into action.

Sir Walter's cell was three flights up in the area reserved for the gentry. Leonard had heard the guards mention the location. Sir Walter was arrested a few weeks ago and had only moved essential furniture inside. Everyone hoped his stay wouldn't be long. He'd been held in the tower in the early '90s and apparently still had friends among the guards as some spoke kindly of him.

They crept upstairs, silent as shadows, having first covered their boots with soft cloths to muffle the sound. A few of the cells were lit with candles, Sir Walter's among them.

He was reading at a small table when Jack peeked through the small window of the heavy oak door.

"Psst!" Jack hissed. The first time he was so quiet, Sir Walter didn't hear him. _God's Bones, pay attention!_ "Psst!" he repeated even as he cringed at the louder sound.

At that Sir Walter looked up. Jack grinned at him through the opening. Leonard was keeping watch on the staircase.

Sir Walter raced over, his careworn face lighting up like a kid. Seeing him happy made all Jack's nervousness disappear.

"How did you manage to get inside?" Sir Walter whispered.

"Leonard's helping me. I have a letter and a couple of books from Lady Bess for you." He first poked the folded sheet of parchment through the grill. The volumes were a tight fit, but they made it too.

"Bless you, lad." Sir Walter's eyes grew wet with unshed tears. "Can you stay long enough for me to write a reply?"

"I'll try."

Sir Walter broke through the seal as he hurried back to his desk. He scanned the lines, as he reached for a fresh sheet of parchment. Dipping his quill into the inkwell, he began writing.

Leonard eyed Jack nervously. "Hurry up!" he mouthed.

Jack nodded. He was so excited, he felt like he was floating. Sir Walter was muttering as he scribbled. He barely took the time to sprinkle sand over the paper and waved it in the air as he rushed back to Jack.

"Tom sends his highest regards," Jack whispered. "He and Lord Northumberland are working to secure your release."

"I know, lad." His face softened. "Thank you. I'll never forget your kindness."

"Jack! We gotta leave now!" Leonard darted over and grabbed him by the jacket. "Guards on the stairs!"

Jack stowed the precious letter inside his coat. "We can hide in one of the empty cells."

They rushed to a cell with an open door and darted inside. Leonard stood in front of him, shielding him from view.

The thuds grew louder. "This will be your new home, your lordship," a rough voice said.

"Thank you, my good man. Here's a token of my gratitude." The clink of coins indicated a payment. Jack closed his eyes and prayed the guard wasn't taking the prisoner to the cell they were hiding in. The guard's torch cast harsh light on their surroundings. The cell was empty. Surely a nobleman wouldn't be housed here.

The footsteps passed them. They sounded like they were going to a cell beyond Sir Walter's. At the creak of a door being opened, Leonard hissed, "Go! Head straight for the changing room!"

It was hard to run as fast as he wanted to and still be quiet. The cloth wrappings on his boots made the steps treacherously slick. But fear was a powerful motivator. Leonard could have been downstairs in an instant but he stayed close, braking Jack whenever he slipped. They had to descend three flights of stairs to the room, which was, as Leonard hoped, empty. Two of the guards were upstairs with the new arrival. The others appeared to be outside in the courtyard.

They quickly stripped off their uniforms and armor. Underneath they were clad in thin leggings and shirts. Their outer clothes were hidden outside in a back alley. But getting to them wouldn't be easy. They'd arrived when the courtyard was deserted. It now sounded like they were conducting an outside drill.

They couldn't escape through the front, and that was the only ground-level exit.

"We'll have to hide in the cellar till the guards leave the courtyard," Leonard said.

Jack was all too familiar with the dank bowels of the Tower. They'd already hidden there for hours at a stretch when they were monitoring the guards. It had gotten to the point that Jack began naming some of the rats which were their constant companions. The place stank with refuse. Outside the fresh air kept the stench from being bothersome, but this was like living inside your gut.

They had no choice. The bells struck ten o'clock before finally the noise grew less. Leonard left him to reconnoiter several times. After the third attempt, he gave him the thumbs up. They were almost home free.

Jack crept up the stairs behind Leonard. He could hear loud laughter and noises from the guardroom. Hopefully everyone was too relaxed to pay any attention to them. The front door was open. As they snuck closer, a guard walked past the entrance.

Jack swallowed hard. There weren't any guards stationed at the door when they arrived. What now? He exchanged anxious looks with Leonard. The _wearh_ could have simply shot through the entrance and jumped over the wall with a speed that no guard could match. But Jack was stuck.

They were now safely past the guardroom but their escape route was blocked. It was dangerous to retreat down the corridor. No one had seen them the first time, but they were tempting fate to make a second attempt.

Jack put his mouth to Leonard's ear as he slipped him the letter from Sir Walter. "You go ahead. I'll follow when I can."

Leonard shook his head vehemently. "You'll never make it on your own," he hissed.

"This was my idea. You shouldn't have to suffer because of it."

"Hey, guard!" Jack started when he heard the loud voice in the courtyard. It sounded like Father H. Leonard looked horrified. That meant it was Father H, for sure. They were already in trouble, but it had just quadrupled.

"Halt!" a bass voice ordered. "State your business, priest."

"I came to warn you. There's a commotion on the street outside the gate. Ruffians are arguing about rushing the tower. I think they plan to rob the armory."

Leonard grabbed Jack's arm and they fled back to the staircase. The guard yelled for additional yeomen. The thuds of pounding boots thundered on the stone floor.

"Run!" Leonard urged as soon as the noise died away. "This is our chance."

The guardroom was temporarily emptied, but a couple of guards remained in position by the gate opening onto the street. When Jack and Leonard entered the courtyard earlier in the day, they'd scaled a wall near Traitors' Gate. That route was now blocked to them since it was too close to the guards.

Leonard directed him to the back of the courtyard. The wall in that section was even higher. Jack had to stand on Leonard's shoulders and then make a mad jump to reach the top. He clung precariously to the stones as he scrabbled with his legs to swing them on top of the ledge.

Jack scanned the empty street below. They were close to the canal which flowed under the gate, but not close enough for him to drop into the water. The embankment was paved with stones. He clung to the edge with his hands while slowly inching his way down. Leonard, of course, had already leaped down in one bound.

"I'll catch you," Leonard hissed. "Go ahead and jump."

Jack wasn't that light. There was no way Leonard could hold onto him, but he might be able to break his fall. Jack's hands were slick with sweat. He was losing his grip. He closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer.

#

Hubbard's scowl deepened as he darted around the perimeter of the Tower. It was fortunate the guards hadn't caught the scamps. He was the one who'd mete out punishment. What could have driven them to such folly? Their behavior was enough to make his blood boil—no easy feat for a coldblood.

If Hubbard hadn't had his agents spy on them, he might not have been in time. As it was, it was a near escape. The _wearhs_ Hubbard had commandeered for the rescue thought tricking the yeomen was a clever prank. They paid off some locals to give misleading instructions to the guards. Hubbard, though, was not in a forgiving mood. Leonard and Jack would hear no laughter from him when he got his hands on them.

He tracked their scents to the wall near the canal. And there they were. Leonard's hangdog face was mirrored in Jack's expression along with a grimace of pain. Leonard was supporting the boy with an arm around his waist.

Hubbard was at their side in an instant. "How badly are you injured?"

"Just a sprain, I think," Jack said. "How did you know to come?"

Hubbard glanced up at the high wall next to them. Jack was lucky he hadn't broken his neck. "Let this be a lesson to you. I know about everything that goes on within my domain. You'll give me a full accounting, but that will wait. I don't expect you brought a boat?"

Leonard shook his head. "I can carry Jack."

"My boat's only a few yards away."

Jack's exhausted grateful smile would have melted a heart sterner than his. But Jack was no longer a child. It was far past time for him to act like it. As for Leonard, there was no excuse.

* * *

_Notes: The initial inspiration for this chapter came from a comment Jack made to Matthew in The Book of Life about sneaking into the Tower of London to see Walter Raleigh. In next week's chapter, Jack will face unforeseen consequences.  
_  
_Scholars believe that Shakespeare's inclusion of witches in Macbeth was an attempt to curry favor with King James. I've written more on the subject in my introduction to this story on my blog. The post is called "Backdrop to Walking Shadows."  
_  
_Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation. For background information on the series and an introduction to the world of All Souls Trilogy, see The Six-Crossed Knot page._  
_Pinterest: Six-Crossed Knot board on Silbrith's Stories_  
_Twitter: silbrith_


	2. Rebirth

**Chapter 2: Rebirth**

**London. August 1, 1603.**

"It was entirely my fault," Jack insisted. He'd used the time while Father H rowed them back to the pier at Blackfriars to explain why they'd sneaked into the tower. "You mustn't blame Leonard."

"I'll blame whoever I like, pup," he retorted. "Leonard should have known better.'' He paused to glare at the remorseful _wearh_. "You've lived over a century. Surely you learned a little responsibility. At the very least, you should have come to me beforehand."

"I didn't think you'd help," Leonard muttered.

"By God's Grace, I shouldn't have. I don't care if the cause was a generous one. Sir Walter's already in mortal peril. If your idiocy had been linked to him, his case would be even more difficult."

Jack didn't attempt to argue. His ankle throbbed and his head ached abominably. He figured it was the dank air of the cellar which he'd been breathing for the past two days. But he'd managed to see Sir Walter. Lady Bess would soon receive the letter. The warm feeling Jack had from being able to help two friends who'd been so good to him made everything else seem not very important.

His ankle wasn't broken, but the sprain was nasty enough to keep him off his feet. Father H let him stay in the bell tower, claiming the only reason he did so was to prevent Jack from getting into even worse mischief. Leonard delivered the letter to Lady Bess for him. When she heard about Jack's injury, she sent him a couple of meat pies and enough fresh fruit to last a week.

The next day Leonard headed off to Richmond to rehearse with the playing company. Jack decided to hold off for a few days to let his ankle recover. He'd still have ample time to learn the music. Father H was having him do penance by writing prayers for the townspeople to affix to their doors. The prayers appeared to be ineffective at preventing the plague, but it gave them a measure of solace.

Jack was glad Father H didn't order him to do anything more demanding. The sultry heat of London in August was bothering him like never before. With each passing day, his headache grew worse. Would the heat never let up?

**A week later. Christ Church Greyfriars.**

"How long has he been ill?" Leonard demanded, dropping to his knees beside Jack's pallet.

Father H wrung out a rag in a basin and placed it on the boy's forehead. "Five days. He took a turn for the worse two days after you left."

Leonard had returned to London to check on Jack when he failed to appear in Richmond. He'd assumed Jack's ankle was continuing to bother him. When he didn't see Father H in the nave of the church, he'd tracked him to Jack's room in the bell tower.

Overlaying Jack's scent of fig and rosemary was the stench of the plague. The smell of death hung like a pall in the small space. Jack was unresponsive, in the throes of a high fever. He had a distinctive goose-egg bump on his neck that was already darkening.

Leonard felt himself grow nauseous. Jack had escaped the previous occurrences of the plague. They'd grown complacent. Why hadn't Leonard forced him to go with him to Richmond, or better yet, not allowed Jack to return to London at all?

"You can't let him die!" he blurted, then cringed that Jack had heard him. But did it matter? Jack had the right to know what his condition was. "We could save him!"

Father H didn't take his eyes off the boy. "Death is everywhere. It is not for us to say who lives and who dies."

A blood tear slid down his cheek and Leonard swiped it angrily away. He felt like he was reliving the nightmare of the Old Lodge but this was a thousand times worse. On that occasion, there had been a sliver of hope the boy could recover. Now death was staring him in the face. "You told Mistress Roydon you'd protect him. It lies within your power—and mine—to do so. If you won't, I will."

"Your love for Jack could kill him instead. You were born too young. You don't have the necessary control. What your sire did was inexcusable. He was a youth himself and he committed the same folly with his children. You and Amen were the only ones who survived his attempts."

Leonard's blood father had been killed during the Battle of Bosworth Field. At the time, Leonard had only been a _wearh_ for five years—still an infant. Father H gave him and Amen a home, taught them what they needed to know to survive.

"Then _you_ save him."

Father H shook his head. "Jack could be tainted with my sins."

"What do you mean?" When Father H ordered him to never sire children, Leonard had assumed it was because he was too young. To his knowledge, Father H had also never sired children, instead adopting waifs and misfits off the streets. Leonard had reasoned it was because he felt creating _wearhs_ to be in violation of his beliefs.

Father H exhaled, replacing the rag on Jack's brow. "My blood can make my children ill, driven by a rage they can't control. They destroy themselves as well as others. That's not a destiny I would wish for anyone, let alone someone I care about."

Leonard sat back on his heels, horrified. He'd heard of the disease Father H referred to. There were _wearhs_ who couldn't control their emotions. When they became angry, they transformed into killers, lashing out at their enemies and friends alike. The only warning was that their eyes became inky black, a sign of the darkness inside them. "But I've never seen you display the symptoms of blood rage," he whispered, clutching at any straw which could prove he'd misunderstood.

"No, but I carry the seeds within me. All _wearhs_ may. When I discovered the truth, I stopped siring children. I realized that in my desire to save them, I was sentencing them to a death even more cruel." His expression softened. "I'm sorry, Leonard. I love the boy too."

When Jack moaned faintly, Leonard grasped his hand. It felt like it was on fire. His face was drenched with sweat from the fever. Jack was always on the thin side but now he looked like he was being consumed from within. Leonard could hear his heart faintly beating, but it couldn't hold out for much longer.

"L'nard?" Jack's voice was a mere thread which only a _wearh_ could hear.

Leonard leaned closer. "I'm here," he said, choking back a sob.

"Where?" Jack's eyes had faded to dull brown and were glazing over. "I can't . . ."

"Do something!" Leonard pleaded. "Not everyone becomes sick. He has to be given the chance!"

Father H silently moved his lips as if in prayer, his eyes closed and his hand resting on Jack's forehead. He took a slow breath. "Jack, can you hear me?" His voice was low but it held the echo of thunder.

Jack's brow furrowed. "Father H? Are you angry at me?"

"No, Jack. Listen to me. You are dying."

"I know." Although he mumbled the words, Jack appeared marginally more alert, his eyes fixed on Father H's face.

"I may be able to save you, but you will become a _wearh_. Do you understand what that means?"

Jack's bloodshot eyes opened wide. "You can do that?"

"Yes, but it may make you sick. You could be worse off than now."

"How can I be worse?"

"You'll have to live on blood. You may be tortured by emotions you can't control. Your life will not be easy."

"Is there a chance I could see the Roydons again?"

He hesitated for a moment. "God willing, you may."

"Then do it." Jack's eyes closed, the words ending in a moan.

"He's dying!" Leonard hissed. "Act now before it's too late!"

"You forgot yourself, pup!" he snarled. "No one orders me. God's will must be done." He stroked Jack's brow then stood up and retreated to a corner of the room, his back to Jack.

Blood tears stung Leonard's eyes, as he rewet the cloth to wipe the boy's face. If Father H had only gone downstairs to pray, Leonard would have started the process. He knew what had to be done. Emptying the boy of his blood would not be difficult. Jack was too far gone to struggle. Leonard would need to stop himself in time. But the main concern was if Jack would be too weak to feed. Each moment wasted brought more uncertainty.

"Move aside," Father H commanded.

Leonard shot him a look but didn't question him. Father H's expression was set in stone like the sculptures on the façade of a cathedral. The priest knelt beside Jack and lifted his torso into his arms. With one lightning-quick move, he bit into Jack's neck.

#

Pain, blood, and more pain. Jack screamed. The agony he felt was worse than he'd imagined possible. His life had turned into a crimson inferno. The acrid smell of blood surrounded him, nauseating him. He screamed again . . .

A slap scorched his face. "Jack, feed!" a voice commanded. It was faint and hard to hear through the roar of the sea of red which surrounded him. "You said you wanted to see Mistress Roydon again. This is your chance."

An arm was pressed into his face. There was no air, only blood. A loud thrumming in his ears. Smells too intense to be endured. He was dying over and over again.

"Feed!"

#

And eventually he did. For days, weeks, an eternity, Jack's world was reduced to Father H. He had no strength, no will, only an incessant desire for the blood which repelled him even as he craved it. Along with Father H's blood, he drank his memories, his mind assaulted with a constant stream of flashing scenes which made little sense.

Master Roydon was in some of them. Jack could taste Father H's dislike of him. Jack yearned to defend him, but the vision was quickly swept away by others. He was tossed from one to the other like a piece of flotsam. Flashes of people, prayers, Father H drinking from their wrists. Scenes of Jack as a boy. What he'd looked like when Father H rescued him from the sinkhole. Mistress Roydon appeared but he couldn't hear her voice. There were images of a huge man with tawny hair and beard. Father H called him Philippe. That was the name of Master Roydon's father. Did Father H know him too? A few images of the man who'd sired Father H—dusky hair, eyes dark as midnight.

Gradually Jack became more aware of his surroundings. Father H told him he'd been reborn. He was who he'd been before but not. Smells, sounds, colors—everything was more intense. Muscles he thought he knew how to use had grown treacherous. When he made his first steps he careened straight into a stone wall. If he grabbed his wrist, he broke it.

He was still alive, but he had no idea how to live. Father H made it look easy. His touch on Jack's skin was a soft feather. Jack's was a hammer blow.

After a few days, Leonard left for Richmond. He'd meet up with the playing company. Would the day ever come that Jack could rejoin them?

He tolerated Father H's blood well enough but after a few days, his sire insisted Jack feed off those who were at death's door from the plague. He claimed that Jack's actions would bring a measure of relief to their suffering.

Jack doubted that strongly. Some died before he could force himself to feed on them. Plague victims were in endless supply. Was that what his life was destined to be? Was this how Master Roydon lived? Feeding off pitiful victims and corpses? Jack began to loathe what he'd become—a vulture feeding off carrion. Perhaps this was why Father H despised his own sire.

The lore Jack had acquired through Father H's blood was confused and chaotic. Mainly it consisted of vague impressions. Jack now knew that Benjamin, Father H's sire, was Matthew Roydon's son, and that made Father H Master Roydon's grandson. The man Jack had known didn't exist. Instead, Matthew was a member of the de Clermonts, a family Father H detested.

Was the dislike reciprocated? Fate could be cruel. Jack was now related by blood to Master Roydon, but if he knew what Jack had become, would he view him with loathing?

When Jack tried to talk to Father H about what he'd learned from his blood, Father H brushed off the memories. He claimed bloodlore was unreliable and should never be trusted, particularly the associated emotions, but that didn't bring much comfort.

Jack knew he should be grateful, but in between bouts of purging his stomach from the stench of one corpse after another, he began to be tortured by misgivings. Had he made the right decision? Instead of growing stronger, he was getting weaker.

Driven by hunger, he'd begun to feed on rats. Their blood wasn't repulsive, but they were hard to hunt. He could hear them in the walls and in the adjoining church, but he was so awkward, it was rare that he could catch one.

He was still a walking disaster, crashing into walls and tripping over his own feet. Father H locked him in his room, saying it was too soon to be exposed to other smells and sounds. So he was restricted to the dead and the dying that Father H brought to his room and the ever-present rats. Long ago, Mistress Roydon had bought a rattrap. Would she think that's what he'd become? Would she also be repelled by the sight of him?

He'd agreed to become a _wearh_, hoping that he could see her and Master Roydon again. He hadn't stopped to think how horrified they might be at what he'd turned into. For the first time since the Roydons left, he no longer had any desire to visit the quays. He was nothing like his memories of Master Roydon. The disgust with which they'd feel would be more than he could stand.

As the days stretched monotonously onward, Jack began blacking out. He'd wake up with no knowledge of how long he'd been unconscious. He'd find himself alone in a cell of a room with only a corpse beside him.

Father H told him to be patient. This was only a temporary period, and Jack didn't argue. How could he? Father H had sired him, given him the chance of a new life. Jack hid his illness and pretended to be content with the bodies. He never fed in Father H's presence so his sire wouldn't know the extent of his misery.

Luckily, Father H left him alone most of the time. He'd show up to dump a body in his room and remove the old one. After leading Jack through some exercises to judge his coordination, he'd order him to keep practicing and leave. Jack began to sing to himself as a way to pass the time. It was the one thing he could do without damaging anything.

That, and listen. He could now hear the faint scratching of rats in rooms far away, the distant sounds of townsfolk, the rumble of the death carts. Although he'd become a shadow, there was life all around him, existences he could savor vicariously.

When he heard the soft thud of footsteps at the base of the tower, he assumed it was Father H, but this person didn't have his scent of cinnabar and fir. Jack sniffed again. The stranger smelled of raisins and oak . . .

The door opened. At the sight of Leonard, Jack rushed forward to greet him. When he hugged Leonard, he heard something crack and hurriedly dropped his arms.

"Careful, lad," Leonard said with a laugh and tousled his matted locks. "Now I know how you felt when you were a little boy and Mop bowled you over!"

Jack winced in sympathy. "I'm sorry. Is anything broken?"

"One broken rib is quickly mended," he said, giving him a shrug. "Don't feel bad. I was the same way, as no doubt Father H has often told you." Leonard stood back to study him. "How's it going?"

Jack shrugged. "I'm not improving very fast. Father H says not to be discouraged. He calls me a newborn, but I thought I'd already grown up."

"You're only a few weeks old. In _wearh_ terms, you'll continue to be one for months."

Jack nodded, biting back any complaints. He shouldn't take out his frustrations on Leonard, the only other friend he had left.

"Have you been outside?" Leonard asked.

"Not yet."

"No wonder you're feeling gloomy. C'mon, let's go. It's dark. There's no sun to hurt your eyes."

Jack's heart leaped at the prospect. Father H had warned him he wouldn't be able to tolerate bright light for months, but his dark cell was like a tomb.

They sprawled on the ground in the churchyard. The bells had already struck midnight. There was no one about. Compared with the tower, the air felt blissfully cool, and the smell of death wasn't as prevalent.

"You know you can tell me anything," Leonard said tentatively. "I've been there. I know how miserable it can be. You have no need for sleep but you don't have enough control to be around anyone or engage in your normal activities."

Jack nodded, his emotions rising to his throat. "Except for you and Father H, everyone I've been near stinks of the plague. Father H says I'm doing them a kindness by finishing them off. I've become an executioner."

"It will get better. Once you're able to play and paint—"

"But when will that be? Right now, if I touch a bow, I'd probably snap it in two. I tried to write. The quill was crushed in an instant." He sprang up and leaped high in the air. "I'm filled with energy, but I'm forced to hide in a garret." He plunged his hands in his hair as he fought for control. Leonard was remaining silent. What could he say? It was the truth.

"Forgive me," Jack added, forcing himself to relax. "I'm grateful to you. Father H said you helped convince him to save me."

Leonard looked at him sympathetically. "But you didn't really understand what you'd agreed to. That's why I'm here."

"You're going to stay?" Jack's heart soared at the news. "But what about the playing company? How will you explain it?"

"I already have. I told them you were sick, but that you're getting better. I've taken leave to take care of you." He smiled ruefully. "They were more upset about you than me. Your skill will be missed much more."

#

When Father H returned to the church, carrying yet another victim for Jack, they went inside. Leonard couldn't help noticing Jack's anguished grimace at what his dinner would be. This one was a woman in her fifties. She was unconscious, alive by the thinnest of threads. Father H was right. It was a kindness Jack was performing.

Leonard left Jack in his room and withdrew to the church nave with Father H.

"I gather Jack's been having a hard time," Leonard said, not wanting to overstate the situation, although he felt in his gut that Jack was at the breaking point.

Father H took a slow breath. "I didn't prepare him adequately. I should have warned him about the difficulty of the transition."

"You didn't have the time," Leonard pointed out. "Jack was dying. I feared we'd already waited too long."

Father H shook his head. "But I should have done more in the aftermath. Several times I've found him lying on the floor unconscious. Once he was mumbling something about killing himself. That's when I sent for you. I suspect Jack is suffering from bloodsickness."

Leonard's stomach clenched at the news. He'd heard of the disease. It was particularly dangerous for newborns. If they didn't get enough diversity in their diet they could develop intolerances for certain types of blood.

"I fault myself," Father H continued. "Jack couldn't continue to live off me alone. I brought in as great a variety of warmbloods as possible, but it wasn't enough."

"You don't think it's blood rage?" Leonard asked, dreading the answer.

"I don't believe so. He shows no sign of aggression or viciousness. Instead he's purging his stomach far too often. You must have smelled it."

Leonard nodded. "That's why I took him outside."

"I change the straw daily, but it's not enough. Jack needs to get away from London. The boy doesn't have enough control to be around humans, but he's surrounded by them here. Ordinarily I'd say he's too young to hunt, but he needs an outlet for his energy."

"I could take him to Tom's house at Syon," Leonard suggested. "It's empty now, and there's plenty of excellent hunting on the estate. Jack will have a much more varied diet than anything London can offer."

"Will Tom object to _wearhs_ living in his home?"

"No. I'd already written him about Jack. He's offered to help in any way he can. He also wrote that he'd inform Lord Northumberland."

"You have my blessing then," Father H said. "Keep me informed of Jack's progress. Until we learn more about the nature of his illness, don't let him associate with warmbloods. That's another reason he'll be better off away from London. Tempers of those who aren't sick are at the boiling point. If Jack made a wrong gesture, he could be attacked, and he doesn't know how to respond."

This would be Leonard's first time to take care of a newborn. He'd never sired any children of his own. The pitfalls were huge. Jack was still a virgin, and that might help cool the flames of his heightened passions. The first three months were the hardest. Afterward, he'd probably be able to resume some of his normal activities. Until then, Jack was likely in for a world of hurt.

#

Although Jack was reborn on August 8, he felt like his life began anew on August 29 when he and Leonard left London.

They ran the entire distance on foot. When the sun was out, they holed up in the forest and Leonard explained the way of the _wearh_. As soon as dusk fell, he led Jack on hunts.

Jack had often lost consciousness when he was confined in the bell tower, but to his knowledge, he'd never slept. Leonard explained that it was bloodsickness which had made him pass out. Normally newborns never slept. It would be months before Jack would be able to take even a brief nap.

Leonard encouraged him to ask him anything, no matter how stupid, and that meant Jack could finally ask the question top on his list. "Do we have to kill in order to live?"

"We have to feed on blood, but death doesn't necessarily follow. Is that what's bothering you?"

Jack nodded, relieved to finally be able to admit it. "I don't want to have to hurt others."

"And you don't have to," Leonard assured him. "There's a known network of people who like to earn money by letting us feed on them. We don't take enough blood to harm them. In cities, the practice is particularly common, but it requires control."

Jack winced. "In other words, not an option for me."

"Not right now, but soon you'll be able to. As for animals . . ." Leonard thought for a moment. "Do you remember how I gave you blood when you were thrown from your horse?"

Jack nodded. "That was to help me heal."

"Our blood deadens pain. It can put your prey to sleep and allows you to feed at leisure. If you don't want to kill the animal, you don't have to. If you want to feed on a deer, for instance, you can have it lick your blood first. You can even use a little of your blood to help the wound heal faster. The effort takes a special type of discipline since you need to establish a rapport with the animal. Do you want to give it a try?"

"Yes, please." For the first time, Jack realized there might be a way to make his new life work.

There began to be moments when he actually reveled in his new life. He could hear the rustle of rabbits in their burrows and the grunts of badgers as they dug tunnels. He could catch the scent of a deer a field away.

Most of his attempts to catch prey were failures, but Leonard was a patient coach and consoled him with stories of his own initial awkwardness. Jack's first success was a rabbit. The animal stared up at him with huge eyes, trembling at being caught. Jack's heart went out to it. God's Truth, he felt a kinship to that helpless bunny. He pricked his index finger against his eyetooth as Leonard directed him and rubbed a couple of drops of blood on the rabbit's nose. Once it was asleep, and only then, he bit into his neck. The taste of fresh blood, uncorrupted by plague, had a savor which was better than the finest wine. Leonard pulled him back after a few sips and instructed him on how to seal the wound. Jack insisted on staying, holding the rabbit till it awoke and hopped away. The sense of pleasure he obtained was indescribable.

They settled into Tom's familiar house at Syon. When Jack was exhausted from the drill of exercises, he rested on the floor rather than take the risk of smashing Tom's furniture.

Leonard taught him that he didn't have to subsist on blood alone. Nuts, wine, raw meat, cheese, and beer were all acceptable supplements. By night, he hunted fallow deer on the Syon estate. His lordship had granted Tom and him privileges long ago. Jack's fear over how Lord Northumberland would view him were alleviated when he received a personal letter from his lordship. _Master Roydon was one of my dearest friends and you are too. Your new status will not affect our relations in any way_.

Once Jack was able to write without destroying the quill, he wrote to both Tom and Lord Northumberland. He was grateful beyond words that the men wanted to continue being his friends. Tom urged him and Leonard to join him in Norfolk as soon as he was able.

Jack's horse Sienna also accepted him. He tested his ability by refusing to use reins and guiding her strictly by gentle nudges. He figured if he could control his thighs that well, soon he'd be able to play the viol once more.

#

Leonard was strumming the lute in the garden outside Tom's house on a warm afternoon in early October when he heard the strains of a viol being tuned from inside the house.

He smiled. Another milestone. It was the first time Jack had picked up his viol. Leonard figured the new music would do the trick. He'd left Jack for a couple of days to check in with Father H and give him a progress report. While in London, he'd met a musician through an acquaintance. Tobias Hume earned his living as a soldier but was quickly acquiring the reputation as one of the best viol players in England. Playing companies were vying for his services, but he declined all requests, mocking them for the low pay they offered.

Leonard had bought several manuscripts from Hume. The viol was gaining in popularity because the new king was fond of the instrument. When Jack was up to it, he'd have no trouble acquiring jobs.

Father H didn't understand the need for Jack to return to his former pursuits. He thought Jack should lead a life of penance, finishing off victims of the plague, digging graves, and helping him monitor the lives of the creatures in his domain. But that was no way to live.

Leonard had never seen Jack so depressed as that night in the bell tower. Was the real cause behind Father H's refusal to sire _wearhs_ the fact that he'd had too many spectacular failures?

Jack needed to be around his friends. He needed reassurance that he was still accepted. Leonard had developed a four-step plan. Step one was going well. After a few days, Jack would be ready for step two.

* * *

_Notes: The plague of 1603 was one of the worst London experienced. It lost roughly one-quarter of the population. The plague was transmitted by infected rat fleas. _

_In Time's Convert, Deborah Harkness describes how carefully and thoughtfully the process of rebirth can be conducted. I assumed Jack would have had a much more difficult time. Luckily, Leonard was available to ease the transition. Next week in the final chapter, Leonard continues his efforts with varying degrees of success._


	3. Baby Steps

**Chapter 3: Baby Steps**

**Norwich. October 20, 1603.**

Jack reined in Sienna and eyed the half-timbered house nervously. "You're sure Tom doesn't mind?"

Leonard rolled his eyes to the stars. Even late at night, Jack would have no problem reading his expression thanks to his newly improved vision. "For the last time, Tom's looking forward to it. We've already sent our music instruments ahead. The Kings' Men are playing in Norwich next week. This is the perfect opportunity. I'll be able to join the company and still see you."

Jack swallowed audibly and nudged his horse forward. Tom's home was on the outskirts of the village of Taverham, a short ride from Norwich. As Jack drew close, he could see a man sitting on the front lawn, gazing up at the night sky. Jack broke into a grin and urged Sienna into a canter. Leonard held his horse to a trot, giving Tom space for the reunion.

Leonard winced when Jack leaped off Sienna and raced forward. _Please don't knock the man over_. But Jack skidded to a stop just in time.

"Welcome home, Jack!" Tom exclaimed, standing up. "It's been too long. This has been a lonely place without you."

"Thank you for inviting me."

"You're doing me a favor. I've had no one to play chess with, and you'll laugh at my drawings of the night sky. They can't compare with yours. Just wait till you hear about my latest research! My experiments have been going exceedingly well."

As Tom slung an arm over Jack's shoulders and led him inside, Jack didn't have much of an opportunity to talk. That was the plan. Immerse him in the familiar. Jack would be overwhelmed by new scents. He likely had never realized that Tom smelled of cedar and apples. But the hardest adjustment would be to hear the beat of his friend's heart, the flow of blood in his veins.

Father H argued it was much too soon to expose Jack to warmbloods, but for too long Jack had listened to heartbeats fade away in plague victims. He needed to embrace life.

Tom had provided thick curtains for one of the rooms so that during the day Jack could play music or paint. Evenings, he dove with fresh energy into the painstaking process of charting the stars in the night sky for Tom. His former tutor tasked him with watching for shooting stars in particular. Tom wanted meticulous records of all of them. Then after Tom went to bed, Leonard took Jack hunting. He wanted to make sure that Jack's skills were up to the challenge of supplying himself with food when Leonard was away with the acting troupe.

#

During the week in Norwich, the Kings' Men performed five plays. The last was a new play from Shakespeare's quill—_All's Well that Ends Well_. Leonard liked the title. It was fitting for how he felt about Jack. The kid he'd grown to love as a brother would be part of his life forever. Although Leonard's sire was dead, he and Jack would always be part of Father H's family.

Leonard caught a whiff of a familiar scent as he placed his lute in its case after the final performance in the market square. Bryn had arrived. He'd sent word to her through the efficient network of Dutch vampires who carried messages between England and the mainland. He was counting on her to be step three. Jack had yet to be around any woman since his transformation. Bryn would be a test case to see how well he could control himself. And with Bryn, Jack would be the only one injured if his passions got out of hand.

"Your musicianship's improved," Bryn purred in his ear, her breath cool on his neck. "I was in the audience for your performance."

"I wish you could have played Helena. You would have been so much better in the role."

"I do too. How long will it take the king to realize the world won't come to an end if women appear on stage?"

Leonard shrugged. "Probably long enough that no one will remember a boy named Bryn who used to play female roles so expertly."

She smiled her appreciation of the compliment. "Are you through for the day?"

"And for the next week. The players have a fortnight off before we need to be in Cambridge."

"Good, then I can pretend to seduce you while you tell me about Jack." She glanced longingly at the pub. "I don't suppose I could go inside."

"Your clothes are a little too fine for that," he pointed out. "We might be the scandal of the town. But there's a bench where we can sit outside."

A few minutes later, armed with a couple of flacons of claret, Leonard joined Bryn on a rough-hewn bench under a large oak tree.

"I stopped to see Father H before coming to Norwich," Bryn said. "He explained why he sired Jack. He also said you were in large part responsible."

"Jack had a rough start. There were times I worried I'd done him a disservice." Leonard had never before mentioned his doubts out loud, and it was a relief to be able to unburden himself.

She eyed him with a rare look of sympathy. "Father H also explained how sick Jack's been. From what he told me, it was Jack's decision."

"Aye, but he was so close to death, he probably didn't know what he was agreeing to. Despite having lived around us, Jack had no real concept of what it was like to be a _wearh_."

"Is he still suffering from bloodsickness?"

"It's hard to tell," Leonard admitted. "He's had no desire to feed on warmbloods."

"You mean he's living exclusively off animals?" she asked incredulously.

Leonard shrugged. "It seems to suit him. He's had no more blackouts and his attitude is much improved."

"No signs of blood rage?"

"None at all, God's Grace. Even in London, he was never violent."

"He'll never gain full strength if he abstains from humans," she warned, plucking a fallen leaf off her silk underskirt.

"I know, but those first weeks of feeding only on the dead and dying are still affecting him. I haven't pushed it."

"Did you explain that we don't need to kill warmbloods? That there's a never-ending supply of people eager to let us feed off them? They claim it's the easiest job they ever had."

"I've told him." Leonard paused. Jack's face as he looked while in the bell tower flashed through his mind. Chalk-white, the boy was filled with despair at what he'd become. "Jack's not ready."

Bryn scowled. "You're too close to him. What he needs is a strong touch. Someone who'll make him toe the line."

"I don't think that's the correct way—"

"Of course, it is," she interrupted impatiently. "He's a member of our family. It's up to us to give him the training he needs. I'll straighten him out soon enough. I can stay a month. You won't have to worry about him when you're performing. Has he been around people yet?"

"No, and the only daemon he's seen is Tom. I plan to introduce others gradually."

"But only under controlled circumstances," she warned. "I still shudder over how I almost killed my girlfriend from an excess of newborn enthusiasm. Jack's experienced enough horror from the plague. He doesn't need anything else on his conscience."

Leonard had suffered through his share of disasters too. The worst was the rejection of his former friends. He remembered only too well how it felt to be eyed with loathing and fear by those who used to care for him. He hoped he could spare Jack some of the pain.

"I'm glad I can share the responsibility with you," Brie said in a tone far more gentle than she normally employed. "Just you wait. When Jack sees the gift I brought him, he'll be a changed _wearh_."

"What did you get him?" Leonard asked curiously.

"You remember how our passions were out of control when we were infants? You were wanting to bed every boy you looked at."

Leonard stared at her, horrified. "You brought him a girlfriend? Didn't we just agree Jack's not ready? Besides, Jack's only exchanged a few kisses. He's never had a sweetheart—"

"Figures," she snorted. "He's too shy. I brought him something which isn't nearly as satisfying but will be a welcome distraction. It's waiting for him at the inn where I paid for a room." She smiled mischievously. "I couldn't bring it along today without wrecking your performance."

#

Jack was in his room playing the viol when he heard the _clop, clop_ of hooves outside. Tom hadn't had any visitors since Jack arrived, and his stomach gave a lurch at the thought of another warmblood in the house. He'd gotten used to Tom's smell. What would hearing another heartbeat call forth? He fought back his initial urge to flee. Tom wouldn't ask him to leave the room. He could stay hidden away, out of sight.

When he smelled raisins and oak, he relaxed. Leonard had returned. But there was another. A woman. She was scented with lavender and chamomile. And there was another smell . . .

Jack placed his viol on the bed and rushed to open the door. Bryn was standing in Tom's parlor, looking radiant in an elegant gown and her hair frizzed in the French manner. But Jack was even more interested in what she was carrying—a white mop of a puppy! Jack abandoned the rules of _wearh_ propriety which Father H had drilled into him and embraced the three of them. Fortunately, he didn't break any bones in his rush. Bryn didn't seem to mind while the puppy immediately began covering him with licks.

"You've been reborn, and Mop should as well," she said, returning his grin. "Do you know how hard it is to find a Hungarian sheepdog in Paris? I hope you appreciate all the effort I went to."

"He looks just like Mop did as a puppy," Jack said as the mass of white fur squirmed in his arms.

Tom smiled his approval. "We need a companion for our studies. Jack, what will you call him?"

"I haven't changed my name. He shouldn't have to either." Jack raised the puppy to his face and stroked the fur away from his eyes. "I hereby christen you Lobero."

"Let's go sit in the hall," Tom suggested. "I'll close the curtains so it won't be too bright. We need to toast the new addition to our family with wine."

"I'm still bothered by sunlight," Jack told Bryn, embarrassed to admit the weakness.

"Don't feel bad," she said, "It took me months. Now sit down and tell me everything."

"I want to hear about your life first," Jack demurred, sprawling on the floor with the puppy. There was little about the past weeks he wanted to talk about. "Leonard's told me about your successes in the Paris theater. Have you become the toast of the town?"

"Just about. I think commedia dell'arte was invented for me. Women have been able to act in Italy for decades, and now with the queen promoting Italian arts, I've had no trouble getting parts."

Jack had heard about the influence of Marie de Medici over France's Henri IV. He hoped James's queen would also be a patron. Reportedly she enjoyed masques.

"The French queen is very fond of music for the viola da gamba," Bryn added. "Someday you may wish to travel to Paris. With your skill, you could succeed as a court musician. What were you playing when we arrived?"

"A piece by Tobias Hume. It's called 'Touch Me Lightly.' " Jack winced as he twisted a hank of Mop's fur. "A reminder for me to maintain a delicate touch."

"I, for one, am not ready for you to go to France," Tom declared. "Perhaps after I'm no longer around."

Jack swallowed. That was a concept he didn't want to think about. He used to envy Leonard and Bryn for being able to live such long lives, but he hadn't come to terms with leaving any of his warmblood friends behind.

Leonard was asking Bryn questions about her life in France and Jack refocused on what they were saying. He had the uneasy impression that Leonard was thinking of leaving too.

"Paris is much more sophisticated than London," she explained, "and decadent. It must be the Italian influence. For some of the scenes on stage, I wear hardly any clothes at all."

If she intended to shock them, she succeeded. Tom blushed bright red.

"But I'm not complaining," she added. "That's how I met Fanny."

"Who's she?" Jack asked.

"Only the most beautiful and sophisticated _wearh_ I've ever met. She saw me at a performance, and"—she gave a dramatic sigh—"it was love at first sight."

Did Bryn mean what she said literally? Jack knew she favored women over men. Now that she no longer disguised her gender, he'd wondered if it made her affairs more difficult. He hoped for her sake that Paris was more enlightened than London.

Leonard didn't mention any plans to travel, but Jack knew it was inevitable. Eventually all _wearhs_ who mingled with human society would have to shed their identity for a new one.

#

After Leonard left, Bryn accompanied Jack on his nightly hunts. Tom's house was on land owned by Lord Northumberland. Most of the estate was used for grazing sheep. Jack had grown comfortable with many of them. He watched over them and in return they gave him not milk, but blood. He was careful to never take enough to harm them.

Bryn groused about his strength not being as it should be. She claimed it never would be if he didn't start adding human blood to his diet. Once she forced him to accompany her while she visited one of the farmers in the network of _wearh_ provisioners. He had to sit and watch while she fed.

Jack knew Bryn hoped the smell of blood would make him want some too, but his stomach cramped at the thought. The tang brought back memories of the stench of London corpses. Thankfully, she didn't force the issue. He hadn't suffered any recurrence of the illness since he'd left London. He felt he was growing stronger even though she could easily outrun him.

Bryn rented a room at the inn run by Jeffrey's uncle in the neighboring town of Norwich. Mistress Norman was still living there along with Jeffrey and his wife Annick. Bryn knew the Normans from the years she lived in London. She quickly became friends with Annick. The Normans were rare examples of witches who had good relations with _wearhs_.

Jack longed to visit his friends but worried about how they'd react to him. He'd grown accustomed to Tom's heartbeat. What would it be like to hear three other warmbloods beating so close to him?

His first excursions were short walks into the village of Taverham with Bryn. Later they ventured into Norwich. The plague hadn't touched the town, but there were so many sounds and scents to absorb, Jack quickly became disoriented. Mop was his saving grace. His familiar puppy smell anchored him in the sea of unfamiliar impressions.

When the playing company finished their performances in Cambridge, Leonard returned to Tom's house. All three of them would hunt at night. When Leonard and Bryn left to feed on warmbloods, Jack visited his favorite sheep. Bryn no longer attempted to persuade him to drink human blood.

One day, in the ghostly predawn light of early November they strode into Norwich. It was the first time for Jack to visit the town without Mop, but he had his _wearh_ anchors instead. It was a celebration of sorts. He'd now been a _wearh_ for ninety days. He'd graduated from being an infant to a fledgling.

"Isn't it time for you to return to Paris?" Jack asked. "Fanny must miss you."

"And I her!" Bryn's smile faded as she glanced at him. "You'll be able to manage on your own? I don't want all my lessons to go for naught."

"They won't," Jack assured her.

"And I'm not going anywhere," Leonard added. "There's talk of a new masque being performed in January at Hampton Court. The King's Men are eager to have Jack back. Supposedly the queen is anxious to make this a more spectacular performance than any our former queen held."

"Good for her," Bryn declared. "Let me know what the date is. If I'm not scheduled to perform, I'll find a way to sneak in. I haven't worn a man's disguise in a while."

"You're not going to cut your hair, are you?" Jack asked, horrified at the thought. He liked her long brunette hair.

"No fear of that, not after the length of time it took to grow out. I know a wigmaker who makes excellent men's wigs." She paused for a moment. "The Normans' inn is just down the street. Why don't you come in? I'm sure they're already awake. They've been asking about you. At this hour, there should be few if any patrons."

Jack hesitated. His initial reaction was to bolt. He looked to Leonard for guidance. Surely he'd realize it was too soon.

"This is a good opportunity for you," Leonard urged, dashing Jack's hopes for a reprieve. "You'll realize that your friends still stand with you." Despite his words, Leonard looked anxious. Was his concern for Jack or for the Normans? Jack had known Mistress Norman and her family since he was eight. They were one of the few reminders of the happiest time in his life— the months he'd lived with the Roydons.

Jack had attended school with Jeffrey and his brother John. Jeffrey had confided in him when he fell in love, and his wife Annick treated him like a member of the family. Jack had sung and danced at their wedding. Would the Normans now view him with fear and loathing?

"I won't take no for an answer," Bryn declared, linking her arm through his. "Consider this a test to validate your fledgling status. Don't make me cancel my departure to Paris," she warned, giving him a quick punch.

"Now I really am nervous," Jack said, hoping his feeble attempt at humor would conceal his mounting panic.

"You'll be fine," Leonard assured him. "Just remember, Bryn is a far more dangerous threat than the Normans."

Easy for him to say.

When they walked into the Elm Tree Inn, the public room was empty but sounds and laughter were coming from the kitchen in the back. Jack could smell the delicious aroma of bread. He'd already learned the taste was like cinders to his _wearh_ mouth, but he could still savor the smell. A second wave of panic swept over him when he smelled the Normans. Was there any plausible excuse he could use to flee?

"Keep moving," Bryn murmured, propelling him forward. "We'll clean up the blood later."

She snickered when Jack groaned. She thought it was a joke. He wasn't so sure.

Leonard knocked on the doorframe before sticking his head in. "Mind a little company?"

"Not if you're willing to help." That was Jeffrey's voice. He sounded happy to see Leonard. How would he change when he knew Jack was there?

"Then it's a good thing I brought friends along," Leonard said cheerfully.

Bryn gave Jack a final shove as she strode in. "Jack's especially eager to volunteer."

Mistress Norman, Jeffrey, and Annick were standing around a large oak table in the center of the kitchen. Jack could smell the sudden fear which erupted when they saw him. This was a lousy idea. He should have asked first, written for permission, done something, _anything_ rather than surprise them.

There were too many heartbeats, all jangled together. There should be only three warmbloods, but it sounded like at least four. Jeffrey's heartbeat was particularly racing. It reverberated in Jack's head, a claxon call that he didn't belong here. He should leave immediately before causing them any more pain.

"Jack, this is a pleasure!" Annick exclaimed, dusting off her hands. "It's about time." She rushed forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to travel to Taverham to see you." She cast a smile at Jeffrey. "My overly protective husband won't let me go far." She patted her belly. "I'm pregnant!"

"Congratulations to all of you!" In his joy, Jack's nerves eased up on their stranglehold. He was hearing her baby's heartbeat!

Jeffrey hesitated for a brief second before he too relaxed into a smile. "We're trying to convince Mother to stay with us. We're going to need lots of help."

"If there's anything I can do . . ." Jack's words trailed off. They wouldn't want him around a baby. Did they know he was considered an infant?

The initial awkwardness gradually faded under a barrage of chatter by Leonard and Bryn. Mistress Norman invited them to gather around the table and assist them in making pies. They had leftover fish and poultry from the preceding day as well as apples steeped in honey.

Leonard had received news from London. The plague had eased off now that cold weather was settling in. Lady Bess had been spared any illness. Sir Walter was still in the Tower with his trial slated for later in the month.

When the pies were ready for the oven, Jack found himself wanting to linger. The day was overcast. There was no need to hurry back, and it felt so good to be doing something useful for a change. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Sure," Jeffrey said. "I could use a hand with barrels of beer. There are several in the stillroom behind the kitchen that should be brought into the pub."

Strength was not something he lacked these days. He'd make quick work of those barrels.

Mistress Norman was standing next to him, and she reached over to pat his hand. "Thank you for your offer, Jack . . . and thank you for visiting." She paused for a moment. "I'm glad you made the decision you did. Goody Alsop would have approved."

Jack just stared at her for a moment. That was the last thing he expected to hear. "I wish I were as confident," he admitted in a whisper.

Annick, who was standing next to him on the other side, asked, "You have doubts because of your illness?"

"How did you know?" he blurted, shocked. He didn't think it was that obvious.

"I've been dreaming about you for nigh onto a week now."

Everyone stopped what they were doing. Jack saw Leonard and Bryn exchange uneasy glances. He held his breath, waiting to hear what she'd say next.

"She's right," Jeffrey said. "I can testify to it. She's been asking to visit you, but I . . ."—his face reddened as he stumbled over the words—"I didn't know if you were ready for company."

_Or safe for your pregnant wife to visit_. Jack hated to ask what those dreams were like, but Annick's soft gray eyes were looking at him sympathetically.

Bryn was never one to hold back. "I hope Jack was behaving himself in those dreams."

"He was," Annick quickly assured her and turned to Jack. "All I saw was your face. There were blood-red tears dripping down your cheeks."

What was he supposed to do now? He was haunting someone's dreams? Was this yet another sign he was too flawed to exist?

"Do you often have dreams of others?" Leonard asked, looking concerned.

"No, only when I sense some sort of connection." Annick shrugged helplessly. "It's hard to explain. It's that way with all my family. We can occasionally see events. Usually they're in the future, but not always."

"Jack shows signs of bloodsickness," Bryn explained, shooting Jack a brief glance. "It's a condition where he's unable to tolerate certain types of blood. We believe it's just a temporary phase which he'll eventually grow out of."

"Is there any way to find out?" Jack asked.

"I can attempt to scry if you're willing," Annick offered.

Jack dreaded what she might learn but how could he object to the attempt?

"Moving the barrels won't take long," Jeffrey said. "Annick, go ahead and prepare the infusion. By the time you're ready, we'll be done."

The stillroom smelled of hops, sage, lavender, and a host of other herbs. Jack breathed in deeply to catch every whiff. He hoped the scents would quiet his nervousness about what he might hear.

This was one room where having a heightened sense of smell paid off. Beer-making supplies shared space with earthenware containers of preserved fruit and containers of spices. The scents reminded Jack of the stillroom at the Hart and Crown. He could picture Mistress Roydon standing at the table, mixing him a honey and herb syrup for his sore throat. The memory brought a measure of calmness.

The women selected bunches of herbs while Jeffrey pointed out the barrels Leonard and Jack should carry into the tavern. Witches and _wearhs_ working together . . . Jack's heart lightened. The scattered pieces of his life were coming back together.

After Annick prepared the infusion, she called them into the kitchen. A large pewter bowl of steaming liquid was in front of her on the table. Jack's nose itched from the pungent aroma of alder, moonwort, and other scents he couldn't identify. Three small earthenware bowls along with a sharp knife were grouped next to the basin.

Annick poured some of the liquid into one of the small bowls and passed it to Jack. "Add a drop of your blood into it. Do you need a knife?"

"It's not necessary." He used his sharp eyetooth to pierce his index finger and squeezed one drop into the bowl. She then divided the contents of the bowl between the other two bowls.

She took the knife and pierced her ring finger, adding a drop of blood into one of the vessels. She then instructed Leonard to do the same with the remaining bowl. Afterward, she placed the two bowls in front of her and studied the liquid inside them.

"She's reading the threads coming out of the infusion," Mistress Norman murmured to Jack. "Like Diana and Goody Alsop, Annick can see the warp and weave of life."

"No one in the Norman family has ever had the ability," Jeffrey added. "Annick is the only weaver we know of in southern England. Some witches fear the skill. It's not something we discuss."

Yet Jeffrey and Mistress Norman had confided in him and his friends. Despite his rebirth, he was still part of their family. Leonard and Bryn were too. They all had secrets to keep hidden. Gallowglass had warned him never to mention the book Mistress Roydon had acquired in Prague, and Jack hadn't breathed a word about it. Father H had consumed his blood so he probably knew, but he'd assured Jack the information he'd acquired would never be shared with anyone else. Secrets were the strands that bound them together.

Annick looked up. "Your fear is correct. Jack does indeed suffer from a type of bloodsickness. Members of my family treat _wearh_ illnesses in Brittany, but I've never seen the kind Jack has." She turned to face him. "You're able to tolerate _wearh_ blood, but not that of other creatures or humans."

Jack swallowed. Would that make him an outcast among his new family?

"I don't understand the threads which weave you to me, but they extend to the Normans as well." She smiled at him. "The strands appear quite robust. They disappear into the far mists of time."

Jack puzzled over her words. Likely they meant he would continue to be friends with the Normans and their descendants, and that was a reassuring thought.

"Gradually Jack may become more tolerant," Bryn said. "I've known that to happen to others."

"It's possible," Annick conceded, "but his threads are so snarled, that honestly I don't think it's likely." She studied the contents of the two bowls once more. "You must take care, Jack," she added, glancing up. "In your present state, if you feed off humans, you will awaken a darkness within you which could destroy you as well as others."

Was that the blood rage Father H had feared? If so, there was a way to avoid it. As long as he didn't feed the monster, it would never awaken. Bryn had cautioned him that without human blood, he would never be at full strength, but he was already much stronger than when he'd been a warmblood.

Leonard took a slow breath. "It's a good thing you like sheep, and they you."

"Rabbits, deer, you have many choices," Bryn added and gave a small shrug. "Who knows? You may start a new movement." Her words were spoken lightly but he knew her well enough to see she was worried.

**Sept-Tours, Auvergne, France. October 1603.**

Philippe studied Henri's proclamation. The king had demonstrated yet again he deserved his nickname of Good King Henri. Philippe would be the first to admit he'd had his doubts. The king was a Catholic in name only. His Italian wife was a troublemaker and easily influenced by unscrupulous toadies. Her only virtue had been to supply the king with heirs.

Still, Henri had turned out to be better than expected. He had a natural disposition for diplomacy plus enough wisdom to select brilliant minsters, notably the Duke of Sully. The country was at peace. The king was popular with the people. Roads were being built, forests protected, education encouraged.

Could he nudge the king to promote education for women? It would be a positive step toward ensuring the future of Diana, and there was precious little else he could do to help her.

He gave a soft snort as he recalled how shocked he'd been to discover that she was a scholar, teaching in a university, no less. The Matthew he'd met with her was a far cry from what his son was like now. The future version had a polish and refinement which he wouldn't have believed possible. The Matthew in his time would never have considered toying with a witch, let alone mating with her.

A scent outside the door roused Philippe from his musings. Freyja had arrived the previous day while he'd been out hunting. His daughter was a close friend with his wife and Ysabeau may have assumed she came to visit her. And perhaps she did, but Philippe hoped she had an ulterior motive.

Freyja and Ysabeau agreed on much, but in one respect they were polar opposites. Ysabeau had a deep-seated hostility to witches based on their maltreatment of some of her friends. Freyja was much more tolerant. She also loved to travel. It was an ideal combination for Philippe's purposes. Diana had vanished from his life, but he was determined that nothing would sabotage the future she would one day share with Matthew . . . and the children they might bear.

In December of the year Diana and Matthew returned to their time, Philippe's son Godfrey wrote of rumors circulating in Prague that Matthew had been seen in the company of a witch. By now, the gossip should have ceased, but complacency was not a virtue.

When Freyja knocked on the door, he welcomed her into his study. Her gown of dark sapphire velvet highlighted the color of her eyes. Freyja's fair-haired beauty was only exceeded by that of his beloved mate.

"Ysabeau is discussing the wine harvest with a local farmer," she said, sinking into a carved walnut armchair.

He understood the hidden meaning. They could speak without fear of being overheard. "Did you enjoy your time in Prague?" he asked.

She nodded. "So much so I decided to pay you a visit before returning to Paris. You'd asked me to discover if anyone was talking about the time Matthew spent there twelve years ago. It's been so many years, I couldn't imagine there would be any interest, but it appears I was incorrect. I have an acquaintance who is a witch—a delightful creature."

From the way Freyja smiled, Philippe wondered if she were more than an acquaintance. Freyja's tastes were quite broad.

"She heard rumors that the _Book of Life_ was discovered."

Philippe leaned forward. Godfrey had mentioned in his letter that Matthew's son Benjamin was searching for the same book. "What did she say?"

"I feigned ignorance, not letting on that we believe it describes the origin of _wearhs_. She called it the original grimoire, containing secret spells that had been lost to witches. Even more astonishing, she asserted that Matthew's name was mentioned in connection with the book. Supposedly he was there with a witch—his wife, no less. Can you imagine?" Freyja laughed aloud.

Philippe joined in, as if nothing could be more hilarious. "I hope you told her how mistaken she was."

"Of course, Father. I assured her it must have been someone who resembled him, perhaps even masquerading as Matthew." She shrugged. "These days, with the commedia dell'arte so popular, I see masks and disguises wherever I look. In any case, it couldn't have been Matthew. The couple had two children—a young boy and a girl in her mid-teens."

"Do you know their names?" Philippe asked, his curiosity piqued. No one had mentioned children to him.

"No, but I believe the witch was called Diana."

"Let me know if you hear anything more about the family."

Freyja nodded her understanding. "If someone is pretending to be Matthew, he needs to be shown the error of his ways. I assume you also want me to keep you aware of any further rumors about the book."

"Naturally. Are there any reports of Benjamin in Prague?"

"No." She eyed him curiously. "Were you expecting any?"

"I haven't received any communication from him in several years," he said truthfully, "but he was reported present in Prague around the same time."

"He's so consumed with hatred of his sire, he may have been the one to spread the slander," she speculated.

"Perhaps."

Philippe continued to think about the children long after Freyja had left. What was their connection to Matthew and Diana? Two of the de Clermont servants had assisted Diana and Matthew during their stay in England and knew their secret. Françoise was currently with Matthew in Amsterdam but Pierre was downstairs.

When Philippe questioned him, he was able to provide more than enough information. The boy, an orphan named Jack Blackfriars, had been adopted by Diana after they returned to London from Sept-Tours. When Matthew and Diana left London for their own time, Lord Northumberland and Thomas Harriot had offered to look after the child. The girl was old enough to go into service. Pierre heard she'd died several years ago during an outbreak of the plague. The boy might still be alive.

Surely Diana wouldn't have confided any secrets to a child. But how much did he know about her nature? Had he spread any tales?

Philippe rarely traveled to London since his last quarrel with Hubbard. His English contacts were limited, but he could ask the Dutch _wearhs _who handled communications between the continent and England. They'd provided excellent espionage services in the past. If anyone was gossiping about the Roydons, he'd soon know.

Philippe filed away the boy's name for future reference. The more urgent need was to stop the gossip in Prague. Freyja promised to assist by spreading tales of a man who'd masqueraded as Matthew and had been killed by Philippe. The secret should be safe for now, but who had started the rumors? The de Clermonts had many enemies. They would all need to be watched.

* * *

_Notes: If you've read the third novel in All Souls Trilogy, you know that Jack will face some very challenging times in the twenty-first century. Deborah Harkness so far has provided very few clues on how he managed to survive till then. Giving him a rare type of bloodsickness was my solution. _

_Philippe will play a larger role in future stories. In my next installment, Masque, he chances upon Jack during a visit to England. __My inspiration for Annick and her family was Jehenne de Brigue. She was a French witch of the 14th century who was known for her ability to foresee the future. If you'd like to hear "Touch Me Lightly," a recording is on the Six-Crossed Knot Pinterest board. _

_Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation.  
Pinterest: Six-Crossed Knot board on Silbrith's Stories  
Twitter: silbrith_


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